


Medicine

by avoidingavoidance



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe, M/M, Revenants, Undead, not related to any current projects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidingavoidance/pseuds/avoidingavoidance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>revenant: one that returns after death or a long absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://avoidingavoidance.tumblr.com)
> 
> (a halloween special for an au i didn't know i had, heavily inspired by [this art](http://hdotk.tumblr.com/post/100891742130/hear-no-evil-see-no-evil-speak-no-evil) by [hdotk](http://hdotk.tumblr.com))

It’s dark, but for the candles weakly lighting the litany of dead languages sprawled across the splintered desk. It’s quiet, but for the whisper of a pen scratching over paper, a steady rhythm broken rarely by the crackle of dry pages being turned, searched through by ink-stained fingers. 

Dark and quiet are usually Jean’s ideal thinking environment, the sort of gloom where old magic blossoms wretched and ghastly and ready to be reaped. Right now, though, he hasn’t slept in days, and as he struggles to keep his focus, his safe space seems oppressive in its calmness, its _usualness_. He’s so used to this desk that he can feel the dense wood on his chest, crushing his ribs and smothering him with its familiar smell. Even the feeble flicker of hope this new plan offers can’t lift the weight of his restless unease.

Shaking his head to try and clear the mire slowing his thoughts, Jean reminds himself _why_ he’s taking these notes, why he’s having trouble sleeping, why he cares enough to keep desperately searching even though his ass went numb hours ago and his experiments have all failed him.

There’s a reason for this week’s brief madness, and that reason breathes purpose into his unsteady hands and determination into his bloodshot, tired eyes. 

That reason also creeps silently behind him, just outside the fragile halo of candlelight, mirror eyes flashing ghostly the only thing distinguishing it from the pitch.

No matter how silent the approach, though, Jean never startles.

"You know," Marco teases quietly, resting his chin on Jean’s shoulder as he mercilessly slips his hands under the blonde’s shirt and presses the frozen tips of his fingers against his warm skin. "They say Michelangelo went blind by candlelight."

Jean sniffles and harrumphs, personable as ever. “I think that’s a myth.” Marco hums, his hands traveling up Jean’s ribs in search of more warmth. “Besides, the power’s out again.”

"I figured." Burying his face in the crook of Jean’s neck, Marco presses closer to him, barely hiding a shiver as he nuzzles against him. "At least, I hoped that’s why the heater stopped working."

"Did the cold wake you?"

Leaning up again, Marco catches Jean’s gaze, finding the distinct worry in his sharp eyes and smiling in kind. He bends and brushes his pale lips against Jean’s with a soft sigh, murmuring, “It’s fine. Bed was lonely anyway. Thought you might be out here, crabby and in need of some rejuvenating cold hands.”

"You’re not wrong," Jean agrees, before he drops his pen and stretches his hands above his head. His spine pops loudly, but they’re both so used to it that it barely registers. As he relaxes, Jean laces his fingers behind Marco’s neck, bringing him back down for more kisses. Marco’s lips are so _cold_ , though, Jean can’t help but frown. “You’re also freezing, babe. Do you know how many blankets I put on you?”

Marco nods, nuzzling Jean’s temple soothingly. “It’s not the same… very comfy, though, thank you.”

"Sorry, love," the blonde murmurs, casting his gaze aside and trying not to sound as guilty as he feels. "I just couldn’t sleep again, too restless."

"Don’t worry so much." With a smile much warmer than his chill-pale body, Marco slides around into Jean’s lap and straddles him easily, humming at the leeched warmth already spreading through his body everywhere they touch. "Besides, it’s not like you cut the power yourself, right?"

“ _God_ no,” Jean spits, wrapping his arms around Marco’s waist and hauling them together. Marco allows it for now, but it’s only a matter of time before he wiggles back and puts a safe space between their chests. He’s still anxious, still concerned for Jean’s organs, no matter how badly they both miss it.

They ride a dangerous line. How much touching is too much, how much is enough? When do they have to summon the willpower to pull back? They’ve been playing the balancing act for a while now, though, so Jean’s gotten good at suppressing the chills that typhoon across his skin wherever he and Marco touch. Through Jean’s shirt, and through the three huge, ratty sweaters hanging over Marco’s too-thin body, the brunette is still _cold_. 

_He’ll be warm again soon,_ Jean thinks, and the thought is a strange mix of sadness and determination.

Marco tilts his head slightly and runs a cool hand down Jean’s cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing rough stubble a few days old already. His gaze searches Jean’s face for some clue as to his mood, some hint to his sadness, but Jean closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

"Let’s move," Jean says after a while, his voice rough.

Smiling softly, Marco pokes the tip of Jean’s nose, the pads of his fingers flushed just barely pink from Jean’s cheek. “Where to?”

"Mexico." Jean shifts in his chair with a sigh, lacing his fingers loosely on the small of Marco’s back, eyes still comfortably closed. Marco takes the opportunity to wiggle back along his thighs, allowing cool air to slip between their chests again so Jean has time to recover. "Or Morocco, I hear Tangier is lovely."

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know what kind of expression Marco’s wearing. Smiling still, biting his lip, almost like he’s on the verge of a cheesy grin, laughter lines stark at the corners of his pale eyes, his amused squint almost hiding the black edging starting to creep toward his mirror pupils. Beautiful.

Under these features, though, Jean knows there’d be a shadow of Marco’s sadness there, a faint reflection of his stunted mortality. It never really goes away. Not anymore.

Before Marco can draw needless breath to tell Jean that both of those places are _incredibly_ sunny, before his voice creaks slightly despite his best efforts, Jean sighs loudly and wiggles his nose. “Or we could just move somewhere that doesn’t have fucking chronic rolling blackouts. That’d be cool.”

A short pause, then the soft rush of Marco’s chuckle. “Maybe. If you wanna get _really_ fancy, maybe we can move somewhere that has internet, too.”

"Whoa, whoa," Jean drawls, opening his eyes again and grinning lazily. "Don’t get ahead of yourself there, babe. I don’t think we’re ready for the lap of luxury yet."

"Speak for yourself," Marco laughs, grinning bright and beautiful, his lips only subtly blue in this dim light. "I’ve read every book in this house at least seven times. Did you know that there’s a typo in our copy of _Dracula_?”

Jean squints, raising a pointed eyebrow at Marco. “Did you know that there are two hundred pages missing from the middle of our copy of _Dracula_?”

Waving the thought away, Marco laughs again and scoots closer, shifting slightly into a warmer part of Jean’s lap. Jean’d lost feeling above his knees a few minutes ago anyway, and the cold dulls any pain he might feel for the moment. “The middle’s not that exciting anyway. My point is, if we had internet, we could watch _Netflix_ again. Remember Netflix?”

"Not that well." Jean liberates his now-numb hand from Marco’s lower back to run it though his hair, pale fingers like ice against his scalp. "You were always more the TV-watching type."

"I guess so." Marco brings his hands forward to play with the loose buttons on Jean’s shirt, his blue-tinged nails catching on the button that’s long since been cracked in half. He chooses not to trace the nearly-faded bloodstain resting under Jean’s collarbone this time, instead winding his arms around the blonde’s neck and nudging their noses together. Where their breath twines between them, Jean’s breathes out foggy for a few exhales, until Marco’s lips begin to flush pink and Jean’s begin to pale.

"Is it that bad in there?" Jean pulls Marco back flush against his chest, quietly soothing the brunette’s protesting wriggling while they share more of Jean’s heat.

Marco doesn’t answer at first, biting his lip around his words, which is really enough answer on its own. Jean still nudges him gently, though, pressing his cooling lips against the soft, lively color beginning to bloom across Marco’s cheeks, a pretty accumulation of the warmth he’s been given. With some coaxing, Marco finally gives a tiny, guilty nod, acknowledging the severity of the cold he’d had to escape. Honestly, Jean wouldn’t be surprised if there’s ice in the bed again.

No matter how many times Jean tells him that it’s okay, Marco’s terribly stubborn about the burden they share. He holds out against the steadily-deepening chill that plagues him until gilded leaves of frost spiral over the burial mound he makes curled up under their piles and piles of thick blankets, until he’s on the verge of losing himself to the frigid darkness before he’ll come to Jean for warmth. It drives Jean fucking apeshit.

He’s familiar with guilt, though. Marco loves him, and he loves Marco. Madly. Even so, Jean hasn’t been truly warm in years, not since Marco came back to him. He can remember it clearly, the last time, that dismal night. Shit, he’d still been wearing his suit from the funeral earlier that morning. 

He’d just been thinking about how cold he was, alone in their bright little house with the ghostly imprints of Marco’s body everywhere in the corners of his eyes. He’d just been wondering how the fuck he was supposed to live with only that bare afterimage of Marco’s smile for the rest of his damn life when a knock came at the door.

It was feeble, but Jean knew that pattern, and even though Marco had been shivering and paler than snow, blue lips and veins and stark-white irises where used to shine warm gold, fingers bloody and cracked from digging up through six feet of fresh mud, Jean had yanked him inside and pulled him into his burning embrace.

That was the last time Jean was warm.

He doesn’t miss it.

"I think I found a way to do it," Jean murmurs into Marco’s ear, his chest starting to go numb as Marco’s cold seeps into his core to replace the heat he’s receiving. "To undo this."

Marco leans his forehead against Jean’s shoulder and sighs slowly, out of habit more than need, before he whispers, “You said that last time, too.”

"No, no," Jean protests, hands gently easing Marco into sitting up again, allowing a bare inch of space between them to avoid frostbite. Marco almost looks like he used to, as warm as he is now. Just the eyes. Well, and the spidery black scar curling sharp over the side of his neck, but Jean’s slowly getting used to both. "I know I said that last time, but that alchemy was for _vampires_.” With a hopeful smile, Jean rests his frigid hands on Marco’s flushed cheeks, his thumbs stroking life along his cheekbones. “I got a few good books from the last time I went out, the flooded basement? Still not too great at translation, but this one’s for something I’ve never seen written before.”

Pale eyes wandering, Marco arches an eyebrow and scratches the back of his neck gently. “I suppose there aren’t many options left, huh.”

"Not in Aramaic, no," Jean replies, shifting his hands to squeeze Marco’s narrow sides. "I really think this one’s for revenants, babe. I really think I can fix you this time."

Just like every other time Jean’s whispered these words, Marco just gives a sad, twitchy little smile and nods, his eyes shining with tears he’s just barely holding back. Jean’s still somehow able to convince himself that those are optimistic tears, because between the two of them, Marco was the only one that ever had optimism to begin with.

When Jean can’t hold back the shivers anymore, Marco pulls him insistently to bed, putting out the dripping candles with his fingertips as they go. He rolls them under the mountain, into the hollow nest they’ve created under all the blankets. The sheets are still a little stiff from being frozen to Marco’s skin. 

The brunette carefully curls up beside Jean, leaving just enough space between them that Jean can start recovering from being close for so long.

Jean’s nearly asleep when he reaches up and presses the tips of his fingers to Marco’s now-pale lips, feeding some bare warmth into them before he leans in and kisses him again, so softly and gently it makes their chests ache.

"I love you, Marco," he whispers, his voice already thick with sleep. "I’ll find a way."

"I love you, Jean. Always." If he hears the waver in Marco’s response, Jean doesn’t mention it, nor does he resist when Marco nudges his hand safely away.

As soon as he’s sure that Jean’s sound asleep, Marco leans forward again, pressing a soft kiss to his scratchy cheek before breathing the words he’s been choking down since Jean started his mad search for Marco’s impossible ‘cure.’

"I’ll see you when you come home."

When Jean wakes, the sheets are warm.


End file.
